
V.A. Nageswaran argues the brain-as-computer metaphor is iatrogenic. For traders, the danger is real: outsourcing judgment to algorithms hollows out the skill that wins.
Somewhere on the internet right now, a human is being asked to prove she is human. She hunts for crosswalks and traffic lights in a grid of blurred photographs, then clicks until a machine accepts her. Alan Turing asked whether a machine could pass for a human. We have inverted the test: now the human performs humanity for the machine's approval.
V.A. Nageswaran, India's chief economic advisor, draws on that small ritual in a recent Mint essay. He cites a Financial Times piece by Sarah O'Connor, 'The human brain is not a machine,' and argues that the real danger is not machines rising to meet us. The danger is us lowering ourselves to meet them.
The brain-as-computer metaphor is not a finding. It is a projection. Every age projects its most advanced technology onto the mind. Descartes, amid hydraulic automata in royal gardens, saw nerves as pipes and spirits as fluid under pressure. The Victorians, having laid the telegraph, spoke of a switchboard. We live in the computer age, so the mind becomes hardware running software.
Nageswaran calls this metaphor iatrogenic, a treatment that produces the illness it tries to cure. Reached for to help understand ourselves, it remakes us in its image. We buy books on maximizing productivity. We strap devices to our wrists to measure everything. We speak of needing to 'recharge' before we 'burn out.' The machine metaphor, intended to illuminate, ends up lowering the bar for the human.
That same trap plays out daily in trading and investing. The productivity culture that measures streaks and turns meditation into a leaderboard is the machine metaphor applied to the self. O'Connor's book, 'We Are Not Machines,' warns that automation does not simply replace work. It hollows out the work that survives. People are set to supervising algorithms that once did their thinking. The job grows more intense and more solitary.
Frederick Winslow Taylor, the early 20th-century engineer, broke craft into measurable fragments and turned men into components of a machine. The same fragmentation happens when a trader outsources analysis to a black-box model, keeping only the supervisory role, watching the machine trade. The creativity, the pattern recognition that comes from lived experience, atrophies.
Nageswaran does not stop at the workplace. He points to scholars who argue that consciousness arises from being alive, not from processing power. Antonio Damasio in 'Descartes' Error' and Mark Solms in 'The Hidden Spring' tie the mind to the body's stake in its own survival. A thermostat regulates without caring. A living organism must maintain itself or cease to be. Markets are not thermostats. They are collections of living beings who care about money and survival.
The essay offers a vivid example of how far the machine metaphor has reached. The Wall Street Journal reported on 12 June 2018 that even meditation, the practice built to quiet the comparing and ranking mind, has been turned into a contest. Logging uninterrupted streaks. Climbing leaderboards in online groups. One firm sold a wristband that delivered an electric shock to prompt calm. A user with a 300-day streak confessed he meditated mostly to keep the count going. The irony is sharp: the very instrument meant to escape the rat race became the rat race.
For a broader look at why contrary judgment often wins when the crowd is wrong, see our piece on Why Great Trades Start When the Crowd Disagrees.
Nageswaran reaches for the Katha Upanishad, an ancient dialogue between a boy and Death. Mortality is not a flaw, the text suggests. It is the doorway to the question of the deathless. The machine faces no such question. It is owed skill and care in its making, and caution in its governance. It is not owed the human capacity for self-doubt or wonder.
What we most have to fear is not the machine. It is what the machine draws out of us, the urge to measure ourselves against it, to prove mastery or concede inferiority. That restlessness, Nageswaran writes, is the insecurity of a creature unsure of its own ground. A creature that feels diminished does its worst.
That, and not some awakening of silicon, is the real risk of this age: that having mistaken ourselves for machines, we will expect far too much of ourselves in the things that do not matter, and far too little in the things that do.
Nageswaran wrote that in Mint on 1 July 2026. He is India's chief economic advisor.
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